The Innocence of One Saves Hundreds
by Ninja Basket
Summary: America's tired of putting up with England, so he leaves for the New World. However, things don't go exactly to plan, but the innocence of one can save hundreds.


_A/N: Happy Thankgiving everyone! I can't say all of this is perfectly accurate, but for the most part, it gets the job done._

_Enjoy~_

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I

There's a dull ache in America's bottom—which he is positive is from sitting on those awful church pews all day. He follows England into the house and groans loudly as he throws his coat aside and sits down opposite England, who has already begun brewing a pot of tea.

Centuries of church going have made England impervious to the post-service pains, and America can't help but feel a tad bit resentful.

"Here," says England as he shoves a cup of tea in front of America. "Drink up, you'll feel better, trust me."

America really does trust England, so he downs the warm beverage in one go. His face contorts as the bitter flavor invades his body.

"Years of this almost make you want to become an Atheist." America says bluntly.

"Now I _know_ I can make a proper pot of tea—"

"No! Not your _tea._" America says sharply, and he knows England is going to scold him about his tone any second now. "Church." He says once he sees that confused look on England's face. "I don't see how anyone can bear to go."

"America, everyone who wants salvation has to be present before the Lord on Sundays."

"Well, maybe I don't want salvation."

England puts his teacup down a bit too roughly and the brown liquid sloshes over the brim of the cup. "Then maybe you should leave, America."

II

Maybe America is taking England's invitation to leave a little too far.

Or maybe the docks aren't far enough.

America slings his pack over his back—a nervous reaction at this point— and joins the other hundred and one men and women standing in the mist.

It's practically raining, and the fog is so thick that America can hardly see the ship's captain yelling orders. America isn't paying attention though. He's thinking about how much they all need some super awesome collective name, something that they can be known as until forever.

Something like _Pilgrims_. Yeah…

It's all America can think about as he rushes onto the ship.

III

The days go by so slowly, and America can't decide whether he wants England to be happy or sad about his leaving.

It's been nearly two months, and only two people have died, which America thinks is pretty impressive. And soon he won't have to worry about sleeping next a dead person, because the bodies were being thrown over in a few hours.

Loads of people are sick, though it's mostly the women and children. America seldom leaves his quarters because he can't risk getting sick. He hears that it's pretty tough out there in the new world.

He sure has a lot of time to think, though. But all he can think about is how stupid a name "Mayflower" is.

IV

America is barely off the _Mayflower_ when the unbelievable cold hits him. It's a kind of chill that penetrates the scrap of cloth that he calls a jacket, but it is nothing when compared to winter at England's house.

England's house…

He probably has a large crackling fire going under the mantelpiece, and he's probably well-fed, and his nose probably isn't going to fall off if it gets any colder.

V

Being in a new land excites America beyond reason. He's alone, and he's brave, and most of all he is free.

The rest of the separatists (America's pilgrim idea wasn't exactly catching fire) stood around in the same awe-struck manner, free.

America wants to pipe up with something along the lines of '_What the hell are we doing just standing around?'_ but before he can say anything, a man in his mid-twenties comes up to him.

Because America is young, none of his fellow Americans have any respect for him. They all have wrinkles on their faces, showing off all of the trials they've survived. America likes to think that the wrinkles are inside him, like the big oak trees surrounding him, and if someone were to cut him open they would see that he's had plenty of challenges.

"Jones?" the man's voice calls America from his thoughts.

"Yes sir?"

"What are we to do about food? We've nothing left on the boat!"

America looks around at their surroundings. There's a forest a few miles off, but it would be too dangerous to enter, since night was already falling. He stares at the rocks beneath his boots, and says what England would cane him for if he still could.

"_Shit."_

VI

America doesn't sleep that night, with his stomach growling and his body aching.

He doesn't think anyone else does, either.

VII

America wakes up the next morning to the smell of smoke. Someone must've gone out earlier and found food.

He'd _kill_ for some bacon.

Half-asleep, he lets his nose guide him to the fire, but when he hears the screams, he tears his eyes open.

The natives have set nearly all of the tents on fire, and are emitting one of those war-cries America always wished he could do.

America runs to his tent to get a bucket, and then runs to the harbor so he can put out some of the flames. He sprints down the hill so quickly that he can't stop himself and falls flailing into the ocean. He sputters salt-water and tries his best to focus on getting water to the fire, water to the fire, water to the fire, and-

_What was that?_

He drops his bucket and spins around.

Standing at the water's edge is one of the most beautiful girls he's ever seen, but she can't be over fourteen. Her skin is bronzed beyond belief and her hair has feathers and flowers sticking out of it at odd angles, and she's _laughing_ at him.

America stutters a few times, and she just laughs more, until her face turns to a plum color that's even prettier than her normal brown.

In the distance, one of the Indians sounds a horn, and the girl goes scurrying up the bank.

America wants her to stay longer, but the odds that she actually understands English are next to nothing. He just screams at the tops of his lungs and hopes she understands that he wants her to stop, and she does.

VIII

Even through the language barrier, America thinks he's done a pretty good job communicating with the Natives with silly hand motions.

He's learned a lot since landing on Plymouth Rock, like, where the good hunting spots are, when the fat deer come bounding out, and how to plant vegetables by putting a fish underneath the seed. None of his plants are growing very well, but the rest of the pilgrims' crops were coming along beautifully.

America could just see England's face, dumbstruck at how well America was doing on his own.

IX

It's been a cold week, and the morning is even colder. America had gotten up early to make a fire for himself, but the snow kept extinguishing it.

He makes his way to his tent and cocoons himself in what little blankets he has.

He doesn't remember when, maybe an hour, maybe a day, maybe a minute later, when voices begin to raise outside. America doesn't want to get up, but he pulls himself off the cold ground and looks outside.

The Native American Chief is talking to the Pilgrim who had named himself the leader (since he had actually made an effort to learn a little of the Indian language). They speak hurriedly, and before long, the rest of the Native Americans are coming forth with their bountiful harvest of vegetables, fruits, squashes, and…

Was that a deer on a spit?

X

All of the Pilgrims and Indians are sitting cross-legged on the ground. There's a giant fire in the middle of them all, and food is spread all around them.

The Chief is chanting over the entire meal, and for the first time since disembarking in this new world—_his world_—America thinks that things might actually work out for the best.

And then the snow begins to fall.

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_A/N: Hey, it's my birthday in a few days, how about a review? Please?_


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